


The LonelyEyes Archives

by pensivetense (Styre)



Series: through a mirror, weirdly [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (Jonah did exist but he had OG!Elias's personality because I thought that would be funny), Anchors, Canon-Typical Horror, I tried with the horror but my imagination is Soft, I won't tag everyone but most canon characters will show up in remixed roles, M/M, Monster!Jon, Monster!Martin, Peter's allo but Lonely which is kind of its own thing?, Slow Burn, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), alloromantic Peter Lukas, aromantic Elias Bouchard, how to speedrun your Archivist, lonelyeyes centric, reverse au, so Jon isn't the Archivist and Elias isn't technically Jonah (though his personality is), spoilers through MAG160, surprisingly no canon-typical worms, the power of aro/allo love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26129836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Styre/pseuds/pensivetense
Summary: In another world, Jonathan Sims is the abrasive but brilliant Director of the Fanshawe Group for Paranormal Research and sharp, ambitious Elias Bouchard has just been promoted to the long-vacant position of Archivist...Things proceed rather differently from there.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: through a mirror, weirdly [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015942
Comments: 19
Kudos: 35





	1. FAN001 - IN THE DARK

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea randomly and a day and a half later I had three whole seasons plotted out in a Word document someone stop me

Retrieval log of artefact #0162303, described as a cursed notebook by finder Manuela Dominguez. Artefact retrieved by Elias Bouchard, Head Secretary and Archivist for the Fanshawe Group, London.

[CLICK]

[SOUNDSCAPE: FAINT NOISE OF BACKGROUND CONVERSATION, TRAFFIC. TAPE RECORDER-TYPICAL AUDIO DISTORTIONS]

**ARCHIVIST**

( _faint sound of rustling, as though he’s sitting up. A sigh._ )  
Ahem. Today is the… twenty-third of March, 2016. Not that, I presume, anyone will actually listen to this once I am done recording, but it’s good to keep a reference. Jon insists that I am to keep a tape running at all times—at least while I’m on the clock, or otherwise engaged in… ( _mirthless laugh_ ) _archival_ business, the result of which will no doubt be far more tapes filled with the background noises of London and the Magnus Building than anything of genuine interest. Certainly, if the archive we apparently possess is filled solely with thousands of cassette tapes documenting fifteen years’ worth of James Wright’s employment, it’s small wonder I was never even aware of its existence until yesterday.

Still, I may as well introduce myself, if only because I have nothing better to do while I wait. My name is Elias Bouchard. I have been an employee of the Fanshawe Group for Paranormal Research since 2009, when I joined as a file clerk in hopes of eventually working my way into a position in either Research or the Library. Unfortunately, despite my frankly stellar qualifications, the highest I was able to climb during that time period was to the role of Head Secretary—a step up from filing papers, to be sure, but still not what really drew me to the Group in the first place. 

The discovery of the truth—that the supernatural is a genuine, active, verifiable presence at work in our world, was the single most important revelation of my life, but my early researches into it were stymied by mountains of false information and superstition. When I first discovered the Fanshawe Group, I was elated. While technically established in 1979, it traces its lineage all the way back to the early nineteenth century through several name changes and re-brands—the Paranormal Research Foundation, the Watcher’s Society, and the Magnus Institute, from which the building in which it still resides derives its name.

Despite the apparent lack of continuity, the Group has maintained the integrity of its dedication to the cause of practically investigating and safely harnessing the power of the supernatural for the benefit of humanity, the very goal I have attempted myself to pursue. In the years I have worked here, I have been impressed by the dedication and passion of the Researchers and of our Director, Mr. Jonathan Sims. 

( _heavy sigh_ )

Despite this, and despite my workplace seniority, I was recently passed up for a position on the Library team in favour of… _Jane Prentiss_ , of all people. When I confronted Jon, he praised me for my… ( _exhale_ ) ‘ _initiative_ ’, and, rather than offering me a position on any practical research team, instead promoted me to the position of Archivist, to be taken on in addition to my other duties.

Considering that the position has stood empty since James Wright’s retirement in 2003 following an accident which rendered him blind, and considering that the job description I was given has less to do with any genuine archival work and more to do with retrieving and cataloguing extant paranormal artefacts, I suspect that ‘Archivist’ is merely a polite way to say ‘errand boy’. 

Still, it’s more interesting than filling out spreadsheets all day. Despite the inconvenience of the tape recorder (the necessity of which I can… reluctantly concede, considering how the paranormal resists being documented), any step towards hands-on research is welcome. And I do appreciate the raise.

Please forgive the background noise. I am recording from a coffee shop on the corner of Russell Square—the Caffé Nero—as I wait for one Ms. Manuela Dominguez. It is currently… ( _faint rustling_ ) 12:52 pm, which means that she ought to be here any minute. She called in a report to us three days ago regarding… ( _paper noises_ ) ah, a cursed notebook, and my first proper ‘field assignment’ is to retrieve it.

The report also notes that she is a current student at University College London, which is very interesting indeed. Besides a single, extremely theatrical account of the ghost of a murdered medical student, and the persistent myths surrounding the auto-icon of Jeremy Bentham, UCL seems to be remarkably lacking in supposed hauntings for a campus of its age. And yet, the number of incidences and artifacts that we at the Group have traced to it is… notable. Perhaps it’s merely a matter of foundation; reportedly, Bentham was a close friend and correspondent of our own Dr. Jonathan Fanshawe. 

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

[SAME CAFÉ BACKGROUND NOISE. SOUND OF APPROACHING FOOTSTEPS.]

**ARCHIVIST**

Hello—Ms. Dominguez?

**MANUELA**

Oh! Yes, that’s me. Manuela. Are you… ?

**ARCHIVIST**

Elias Bouchard, of the Fanshawe Group. A pleasure to meet you.

**MANUELA**

( _relieved exhale_ ) Oh, thank God.

**ARCHIVIST**

( _small laugh_ ) Quite. This is the book in question, then?

**MANUELA**

Yes, this is it—oh!

**ARCHIVIST**

Hm?

**MANUELA**

Just- the… gloves and stuff. I guess ( _exhaled half-laugh_ ) I guess I didn’t really expect to, you know. Be taken seriously.

**ARCHIVIST**

( _patiently, not quite patronising_ ) Well, based on what you told us over the phone…

**MANUELA**

What, you never get any hoaxes?

**ARCHIVIST**

Always better safe than sorry. Especially when dealing with… _these_ sorts of artefacts.

[A FEW FAINT THUMPING NOISES. THEN THE SOUND OF A HEAVY LATCH OR LOCK BEING CLICKED SHUT]

**MANUELA**

You… you wouldn’t _believe_ what a relief it is to see it locked away like that.

**ARCHIVIST**

( _trying for kind, still ends up kind of patronising_ ) I think I might. 

[SOUND OF A BAG BEING CLOSED]

**ARCHIVIST (CONT)**

Well then. There’s that. Now. Would you tell me your experience with this particular artefact? In as much detail as possible, please, if you don’t mind. Ah—are you alright if I record? It’s for the Research team.

**MANUELA**

Oh. No, of course that’s fine. Should I… should I start, then?

**ARCHIVIST**

Whenever you’re ready.

**MANUELA (STATEMENT)**

Well, I suppose I should begin by saying I’m a student at UCL, but you, uh, you knew that already. ( _slightly nervous laugh_ ) I, uh, I won’t be, though. I mean, I’m going to be taking next term off. I’ve already cleared it with my advisor, and my academic record is such that despite what happened this term, I should still be in decent standing to return for autumn next year. If I return. 

I’m not even staying for final exams. There’s no point. I’ve already packed my things up and said goodbye to my housemates. The last bit of business I had to attend to before I can drive back home and leave all of this behind me was talking to you. 

I hope I can return, I really do. I love studying here. Did you know that UCL was the first college in the UK to accept female students? I know that sounds like… like a talking point, like something to exploit as a recruitment tool, but it honestly means a lot to me—especially in my field. Being here makes me feel like… not like I’m taking part in history, so much, but more that I’m taking part in what that history happened for. Like a legacy, I suppose. Perhaps part of it’s living in a proper city for the first time in my life. There’s just so much noise here, it’s almost as though you can feel the… the _weight_ of all of the lives and years that have existed in this space pressing in on you. Not in a bad way, you understand. You just… can’t help but feel as though you’re part of something bigger. 

I’m sorry. My friends have always said I should’ve gone for literature or something, with how fanciful I can sometimes get, but I’ve wanted to go for physics since I was a girl and I’ve never regretted it. Mathematics has its own kind of poetry, if you know how to see it. But sometimes my courses keep me buried up to my ears in calculations, equations… I swear sometimes during finals I _dream_ in numbers, and that’s too much even for me.

Anyway, I think my bullet journal is all that keeps me sane sometimes. Have you heard of those? They became a pretty big internet phenomenon a while back. Supposedly, the idea is that if you made your own planner, tailored to your own life and needs, you’d be more likely to use it. I’ve never needed help with organisation, but most people use them as an excuse to make art, and I’m not an exception.

Oh, I don’t get as elaborate as some—I haven’t the time—but sketching in my next day’s or week’s schedule on paper is a nice piece of mindless relaxation that I can pass off to myself as productivity. I like the feeling of creating something beautiful, too, even if it’s just a few rough doodles on the margin of a page.

The point is, when I saw the notebook in the bookshop bargain bin, I thought it had to be a mistake. It was nice. I mean, _really_ nice; stitched binding and indigo clothbound cover, paper I could’ve sworn had at least some cotton content… I’m sorry. That probably doesn’t mean a lot to you. But I’d have paid at least thirty pounds for it if I’d gotten it full price. 

I flipped it open. There was something in the front cover, like a half-torn label, almost all gone, but otherwise it was pristine. I was a bit surprised to see that it was one of those books with black pages that you have to write on with white pastel or gel pen. Of course, that didn’t exactly turn me off. My concentration is astronomy; I was more than happy to have an entire notebook full of doodled stars. The paper was as good as I’d hoped—even better, actually. I’m a bit of a stationery nut, if you can’t tell, and I’ve eyed sketchbooks like that before in shops. Most of them aren’t really _black_ , just murky off-green or -brown or something, but these pages seemed to absorb everything, making the paper seem… depthless. I thought at the time—and this is rather uncomfortable in retrospect—that it seemed like it was _eating_ the photons. 

This was just the bookshop in the basement of the Wilkins building, you know? I was there looking for my textbooks and maybe some pens, but I’m a uni student; of course I checked the sales. But the notebook wasn’t priced specifically, so I brought it up to the register half-convinced it was a mistake. But the girl who worked there didn’t seem to recognise it, and apparently there wasn’t an entry in the inventory when she checked for black-paged sketchbooks. It was near closing and she clearly wanted me out of there, so she finally said that some student must have dropped it, and if it wasn’t in the system then it wasn’t her problem and I could have it. I actually felt kind of guilty about that, but it’s not as though I was going to _argue_ with her. 

I don’t know what else to say about it. The novelty of new stationery wears off quickly, even nice stationery, and before the week was out it had just become a part of my routine. But things started going wrong for me after that.

It was little, at first. Maybe there were earlier incidents, but the first time I really noticed something being weird was when I lost my class. I mean, it’s not exactly a large campus, and I’m in my third year. I know my way around. Besides, this was near the end of the second week of term, so I really should have known where I was going. But I opened up my notebook, just idly, you know, to check what my next class was. Atomic and Molecular Physics, over in the department building by the North Cloisters. And… and I looked up again and I _knew_ that I knew where the building was, but for the life of me, the information wouldn’t come. As strange as it may seem, I started walking anyway. I guess if pressed I’d say I assumed muscle memory would take me where I needed to go, but honestly I was only halfway paying attention, dwelling instead on an article I’d read the previous night about dark matter. It’s funny. I remember the day clearly; bright and high overcast, but when I think back on the memory it’s as though I was pressing through thick, swirling shadows. It’s all very dim, even now.

When I snapped out of it again, about ten minutes later, I remembered where I was _supposed to be_ , and also realized that I was on the opposite end of campus. Even then it didn’t strike me as particularly odd. I’m a STEM student; I’m used to the occasional zone-out. The usual culprit is sleeplessness or stress, though I’d actually slept particularly well that week. I assume so, at least. Now that I mention it, throughout the entirety of last term, I can’t recall a single one of my dreams.  
I shook it off, annoyed at myself for missing my class, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’d skipped, and I knew could afford to, so I just wrote it off as a weird incident and put it from my mind. I went back to my room and took an early night.

The next morning, I went to each of my classes to find out I’d done none of my homework. Again, this isn’t… I’m not a _bad_ student. Quite the opposite, in fact, if that doesn’t sound too arrogant. So I’ve gotten used to being able to miss the occasional lecture or assignment and fully make up for it during exams. Still, I usually _know_ when I’m going to be missing them. They’re just… prioritized lower than studying or sleep. That happens, you know; sometimes a clear head is worth more to your grade than an attendance mark. But just _forgetting everything_ … it was like the floor dropped out from under me. I couldn’t believe it; I’m never like that. And the worst part was that I kept _forgetting why I felt that way_. I was walking around all day in that kind of guilty panic you get when you’ve, I don’t know, lost your keys or something, and I wouldn’t remember _why_ until I opened up my notebook again and saw the due dates penned in, stark white against the dark page—due dates of assignments I hadn’t completed.

I took to writing _everything_ down after that, and, well, I suppose you can guess how well that went. The thing was—I say ‘forgetting’, but that’s not what it felt like at all. I knew I had the information, every time I didn’t go to class, or do my assignments, or when I did go to lecture and start on my homework only to realise I couldn’t remember a thing the professor had said. It just felt like the knowledge was locked away behind a… a dark, heavy velvet curtain, and all I’d have to do was try harder, _just a little harder_ , to see behind it. If I didn’t know something it was _my fault_ for being… lazy or something, not trying harder to reach for it. The only time I could keep those things in my head was when I was looking right at the written information, which more often than not was in that notebook. I don’t know why I stopped using my normal spiral-bound notebooks. It doesn’t make much sense to me in retrospect, but I’d started keeping even my school notes in white pen. 

There would be times when I’d look up and realise that my memories of the past… minute, or hour, or _day_ even, were just so much black. It never felt like I _lost time_ , per se; I was never worried I’d been… I don’t know, controlled or something. The memories… seemed like they were normal, but whenever I tried to think of them it was just like it was... too much effort. But the very worst came during my Linear Algebra midterm. I didn’t quite black out; I remember all too clearly the sensation flipping through the pages of the exam, the sinking feeling as I tried and tried to come up with something, _anything_ , for _any of the questions_. And I couldn't. My attendance hadn't been as good as normal, sure, but I had been in _most_ of the lectures; I should have been able to... to push back the weird brainfog and come up with _something_. But I just felt dull and heavy and like my thoughts were drenched in thick ink and I... I couldn't. 

It seemed like just a few minutes before I heard the rest of the class shuffling out and looked up at the clock. My two hours were up, and I’d not written down a single answer. I hadn’t even written my _name_. I started to panic. I mean, literally; I was trembling as I left my empty test on the desk and blindly exited the classroom. There was a toilet just down the hall and I ducked in and I… I had a panic attack. One of the worst I’ve had since leaving home, actually. It just went on and on, and I was trembling and crying and, and just _gasping_ , I couldn’t get my throat to work, couldn’t get the air in… well. Standard panic attack stuff. I just didn’t understand. I’ve always been a good student, always. I know my degree is a difficult one, and a lot of students don’t make it, but I never doubted… I just felt so _stupid_ , and I know I’m not stupid. I’d _never_ done anything like that before. 

Pretty soon it was every day, every class. I could pay attention just fine in the moment, could write down everything word-for-word, but whenever I tried to retrieve it, it was like those shadows would rise up in my mind, until all I could focus on was what I was physically seeing—the page in front of me, my pencil, or, as often as not, that damned notebook. I was having panic attacks multiple times a week, or sometimes even every day, just living in this constant, unending stress and self-recrimination.  
I tried everything. Slept more, exercised more, changed my diet, joined study groups, and when each of those failed, just kind of… holed myself up in my room with coffee, trying desperately to memorise something, _anything_. I just… couldn’t. 

You know, I even tried going to my TA once? I had an assignment due and I asked her for help, because I was not getting a single thing. She looked over what had, which was nothing, basically, and told me that she wasn't going to do my work for me, but if I had specific questions she'd be happy to answer them after I'd put a little effort in on my own. When I explained I'd been up _all night_ trying to complete it, she just gave me this look of pity and told me that the hard sciences weren't for everyone, and perhaps I just wasn't cut out for the course. I didn't know what to say--she was wrong, of course, but despite it all I felt that she was _right_. All I had to do was just _try a little harder_ , just _apply myself a little more_...

It probably sounds stupid to you that I didn’t connect it to the notebook sooner, but you have to understand how far-fetched that seemed. I mean, I guess _you_ might deal with this kind of thing every day, but _I_ certainly don’t. I just couldn’t understand what was happening. My mum was quite devout, and though my dad’s been less so since her death, I’ve been a steady atheist since I was old enough to know what that meant. To me, there was nothing in the world that couldn’t be explained by scientific investigation. It was far easier for me to believe that I was just being lazy, or a poor student, than that I was being… _cursed_ by a book.

It was my history course that tipped me off. Ironic, really, because despite what I said before about the romance of history, practically speaking I’ve never had much use for it. I like things that work by rules I can understand, and so much of history just seems to be extraneous facts, names and dates I can never keep straight. I don’t think that’s unusual. I was only in the class to fulfil some graduation requirement for the humanities. If I was losing information, history should have been the first to go. 

I know I said before that I've skipped classes, but honestly I do try not to—when the class is actually _important_. But I could care not a whit about the ‘Early Roman Republic’, or whatever it was. It won’t help me at all in my life. I’m aware I can be a bit… single minded, but _honestly_. I’d show up to most of the lectures, sure, but I never took notes or anything. Just kind of listened, and hoped I could cram from the book well enough to get a C or something. 

I went to my history midterm, and it was… fine. Normal. Sure, I didn’t ace it or anything, but I got a solid B minus, which is about what I would have expected. No weird, shadowy brainfog, no zone-outs. I just sat down, filled in my test, and left. 

It’s funny, because I’d never suspected the notebook had anything to do with it before, but the moment I recognised that something _more_ was going on, it was like I couldn’t imagine it possibly being caused by anything else. It was just so obvious, all of a sudden. Like information I’d already had, just been blocked somehow from seeing.

So I started experimenting. Found a bunch of facts about random topics, mostly trivia from old television shows I was sure I’d never watch, and studied them. Then I used a website to make up a multiple choice test and wrote down half of the facts randomly into the notebook. I waited for a day, in case it needed time to take, then tested myself to see what I remembered and what I didn’t. 

It wasn’t a double-blind—hell, it wasn’t even a single-blind—and I couldn’t bear to bring any of my friends or housemates into it so the sample size of my experiment was a grand total of one. Still, I… it was enough for me to be certain. In a way it was almost a relief, you know? Because it wasn’t my fault. But on the other hand, if it was my fault it would be something I could fix, and… I didn’t know how to fix this, how to get back the information I’d lost. I mean, which is worse? Knowing you’re in control and you’ve effed up, or knowing you never had any control to begin with?

I… I admit I kind of panicked at that point. All of the stress, the confusion, and, quite frankly, the _sleeplessness_ was catching up to me. I didn’t spare a thought to, to actually trying to _study_ the thing in more depth. I mean, I had a genuine supernatural notebook in my possession. I should’ve at least been a _bit_ curious. Instead I was just suddenly, incandescently furious at how this… this _thing_ was ruining my chances at a degree. The flat I was letting with my friends didn’t have a hearth, and to be honest I was too ashamed to let them find out about what was going on, anyway. I knew I could _prove_ that the notebook did what I said it did, but somehow the thought of approaching any one of them claiming to have a _cursed object_ just made me cringe. So I emptied out my bin, opened all the windows in my room, and disabled the smoke alarm in the hall. Then I dumped half a bottle of Jenna’s nail polish remover on top of the book and set it on fire.

As you’ve probably surmised, it didn’t take. The acetone vapour caught readily enough, and for a moment it was wreathed in orange fire, spreading up the sides of the bin. Then it went dark. Not just ordinary shadow, I mean. I had the lights on, and I couldn’t see past the rim of the bin at all. It was just dark, just inky black like those pages, but instead of reminding me of the clear void of the night sky, this darkness seemed almost… _thick_. Like a, a positive entity, instead of just a lack of light.  
I reached in. I don’t know why. I know it was foolish. Probably I should have been scared, but I had been scared for _weeks_ and now I just desperately wanted to be angry. It was only a moment before I snatched my hand back out again, just long enough to realise that the book hadn’t _extinguished_ the flames, just… obscured them somehow. I didn’t get any of the acetone on my hand, thank God, so the worst injury it caused me was a couple of blisters, but it _hurt_ , and I might have shrieked a bit.

I left after that. Again, it was stupid, leaving what amounted to an open flame in my bedroom, but I couldn’t be alone in there with that… _pit_ of oily blackness. I went for a walk. It was dark outside, too, by then, but even so it seemed so much lighter than it was in my room, even though I’d left all of my lights on. I told myself I’d gave it three hours, more than enough time for the amount of acetone I’d used to burn. By then my anger had gone, leaving me cold and more skittish than I’d ever been in my life, jumping at every shadow I passed. But I was more afraid of what was in my room than anything out there in the London night. 

But when I final screwed myself up to go back, everything seemed… normal, for lack of a better word. The flames were out, that terrible dark was gone; it was just a book in a bin. My lights were out, when I’m _certain_ I left them on, but compared to everything else that was so small and mundane that it was almost laughable.  
The book itself was seemingly untouched, and only a little warm when I picked it back up. The pages were blank again when I flipped through it, just the same as the day I’d bought it. But I can’t shake the feeling that my writing is still there, not gone, just… just _obscured_. 

I hope not. By then, of course, it was too late for any of my grades to be salvageable, even History, which I’d neglected once I started really spiraling. But I was able to talk my way into credit/no credit, claiming mental health issues, and request a voluntary leave of absence. Maybe by next year whatever hold the book had on me will be gone, and I’ll be able to retake the courses I failed. I haven’t tried reviewing my textbooks, yet. I… I can’t. I can only hope getting rid of the thing is enough.

**ARCHIVIST**

( _finally managing a modicum of genuineness_ ) Well, if you ever do decide not to pursue your degree, you ought to enquire at the Group. That kind of experimental attitude is exactly what we like to see in our candidates. Even if, in this case, it was remarkably dangerous. 

**MANUELA**

( _uncomfortable_ ) Oh. Thanks, but I think I’ll stick to physics for the moment. So, you believe me?

**ARCHIVIST**

Of course. As you say, we deal with this kind of thing regularly. Unfortunate, really. That which we call the occult, paranormal, supernatural--whatever descriptor one chooses to apply--has _such_ potential… and more often than not we find objects like this one, which seem to have been created with the sole intention of causing harm. 

**MANUELA**

Yeah. Well. Is that… all then? Nothing else I have to do?

**ARCHIVIST**

I do have one question for you.

**MANUELA**

Go ahead.

**ARCHIVIST**

That label, in the front of the notebook. Was any of it still… legible? Did it say anything?

**MANUELA**

Oh! Um, there wasn’t any visible writing, at least that I could see, but one corner was still mostly there and there was a bit of a design still visible. It looked like… a stylized eye, perhaps? But I couldn’t really tell. Sorry; I think the fire destroyed whatever was left of it.

**ARCHIVIST**

An… hm. Thank you, Manuela. You’ve been very helpful. Would you like a follow-up report sent to you on anything our Research Team happens to find regarding this artifact?

**MANUELA**

I… No. No thank you. As fascinating as I’m sure it is… I think I’d like to put this all behind me, if it’s all the same to you.

**ARCHIVIST**

Of course. Very well, then. Thank you for your time.

**MANUELA**

I can’t exactly say it was my _pleasure_ , but… yeah. I hope you guys find it more useful than I did. 

[CLICK] 

[CLICK]

**ARCHIVIST**

An eye motif. If she’s correct, then that’s… interesting. I think I’ll recommend a copy of this report be given to Mike Crew in the Library. Perhaps he’ll have some insight to share. 

[CLICK]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manuela makes bad decisions, and I don't know how colleges in the UK work (sorry). Please don't set acetone on fire in your bedroom, even if you do have a Leitner.
> 
> Potato quality horror! Sorry! Actually, potato quality fic, but it’s my first of any real length, so… practice good? Upload schedule: As quickly as I can churn out these damn statements (i.e. not very).


	2. FAN002 - OBJECTS IN MIRROR//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said no canon-typical worms, so have some canon-atypical worms instead.

Retrieval log of artefact #0161504, described as a large, frameless mirror by previous owner Sasha James. Artefact retrieved by Elias Bouchard, Head Secretary and Archivist for the Fanshawe Group, London.

[CLICK]

[SOUNDSCAPE: THE SOUND OF A CLOCK TICKING AND AIR VENTS HUMMING. UBIQUITOUS MUFFLED CITY NOISE FROM OUTSIDE. APPROACHING FOOTSTEPS.]

**ARCHIVIST**

Ah, Annabelle. What can I do for you?

**ANNABELLE**

Actually, Jon sent me down to give you this. It’s a key to the Archive. Apparently, that’s what the locked door in the back of the Library leads to—I had always assumed it was a storage closet. There wasn’t terribly much in there when I looked, just shelves of cassette tapes and spider’s webs.

**ARCHIVIST**

Mm. Well, thank you for… ( _dry as dust_ ) previewing it for me. 

**ANNABELLE**

( _innocent_ ) My pleasure. Do you know, it used to be bigger? A proper department, when Gertrude was Director, with staff and everything, down in the basement. I guess it was too much bother to rebuild it after the incident with Wright and the tunnels.

**ARCHIVIST**

Right, the… worms, and his eyes. You were there for that? 

**ANNABELLE**

I was hired right after, actually. I think most of the staff was replaced around then. No one really wanted to stick around with the worms, funny enough. Horrid, pink, fleshy things like pale and boneless fingers. Apparently, they’d liquefy your flesh and suck it out until they swelled up, all purple and turbid. They were up here for a while, too, before the basement got properly sealed off. We’d kill them just as a matter of course for the first few months—they’d pop instead of squish, and you had to wear gloves because if you got their innards on your skin it’d dissolve that, too. 

**ARCHIVIST**

Annabelle—and I say this with all the love in my heart—better you than me. I suppose I can add the basement to my list of places to never check out. 

**ANNABELLE**

Oh, you have a heart? When did that happen? Besides, you couldn’t go down there anyway. They were very _thorough_ sealing it.

**ARCHIVIST**

_Good_. Oh, by the way, your leave’s been approved.

**ANNABELLE**

It had better be. I’m taking Nikola out of town for the weekend. 

**ARCHIVIST**

You know they’ll only spend the time stressing about their fundraising presentation, right?

**ANNABELLE**

Better to stress at the seaside than here. 

**ARCHIVIST**

Ah, fair. Are you going?

**ANNABELLE**

To the fundraising gala? Of course; Nikola would never forgive me otherwise. And you?

**ARCHIVIST**

( _small laugh_ ) As though Jon would allow me to avoid networking with Consortium donors. 

**ANNABELLE**

He only does that because he’s shit at networking himself and he expects you to pick up his slack. You know he’ll just spend the evening scowling along in Martin’s wake.

**ARCHIVIST**

Probably. But to be fair to him, I rather think it’s the one time a year they actually see each other.

**ANNABELLE**

Hah. Yeah. 

( _a pause and a sigh_ ) I _am_ sorry, Elias. Jon’s an arse. Jane’s _fine_ but… we all know you should’ve gotten her position. 

**ARCHIVIST**

“ _Fine_ ”?

**ANNABELLE**

Ugh, a toxic nightmare. You didn’t hear it from me. I mean, _you’re_ a pompous shithead, and I’d far rather have you in my hair every day.

**ARCHIVIST**

Well, I’ve got a… closet full of cassettes. I suppose it’ll have to do. But thank you, Annabelle, really. 

**ANNABELLE**

You know, Jon probably just didn’t want to lose you as secretary. I know you keep saying it’s not what you’re trained in, but you’re a hell of a lot better than _Oliver_ was, anyway.

**ARCHIVIST**

The perks of being overqualified, I suppose. ( _sigh_ ) For someone so intelligent, I’m convinced he’s never once in his life touched a computer.

**ANNABELLE**

I know. It’s making me competitive— _I’m_ meant to be the vintage nut. I have to defend my title. I’m afraid it’s far too late for you, though; all you could’ve done was lie on your CV. Said you were in… I don’t know, botany, or something.

**ARCHIVIST**

_Botany?_

**ANNABELLE**

He likes the weird ones. I mean, Jane’s background is in entomology, which, sure, that’s _technically_ a research science, but that should’ve landed her in, well, _Research_ , not the Library. I wonder if it’s too late to arrange a transfer?

**ARCHIVIST**

If you don’t count Mike, I really don’t think there’s enough of a practical difference in the departments to matter. Besides, I don’t think it’s actually _possible_ to lie to Jon. 

**ANNABELLE**

Right. He does his…

**ARCHIVIST**

Yes. Inconvenient when one is trying one’s hardest not to gripe at him.

**ANNABELLE**

You’re literally recording everything, so I think it’s rather a lost cause, in your case. Are you at least enjoying your fetch-quests?

**ARCHIVIST**

I- yes, I am—even if most of the so-called ‘artefacts’ are just dolls which have done nothing of substance except look unsettling. Actually, I have one this afternoon—a mirror, this time, _not_ another doll. 

**ANNABELLE**

Well, good luck with it. ( _sigh_ ) I’d better be getting back now before Jane starts whinging again that I’ve been slacking off. 

**ARCHIVIST**

Of course. I’ll see you when I go to visit the Archive in person… which based on your description should be… oh, let’s see, _never_.

**ANNABELLE**

You know, that’s incredibly valid of you.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

**SASHA**

Should I just… ?

**ACRHIVIST**

Would you like me to secure the mirror first?

**SASHA**

Oh. I mean…if you’d prefer. 

**ARCHIVIST**

Quite frankly I _would_ prefer it, yes.

[A FEW THUMPS AND HARD FOOTSTEPS—SOMETHING HEAVY IS BEING MOVED. SOUND OF A ROLLING DOOR SLIDING SHUT, AS THOUGH ON THE BACK OF A MOVING VAN.]

[A FEW LABOURED BREATHS FROM THE ARCHIVIST, WHICH SLOW AFTER A SECOND.]

Alright. Would you please state your name and the date for the record?

**SASHA**

Okay. Sasha James, fifteenth of March, 2016.

**ARCHIVIST**

Thank you, Sasha. Whenever you’re ready, then.

**SASHA (STATEMENT)**

Okay. So, I’d just moved back to London, right? This was two-ish years ago, back in the spring of 2014, and I’d just started renting a place on my own. It was kind of quick, the move—I’d been living outside of Exeter and working as an accountant for Outbridge Financials, but long story short, the company went under and I was out of a job. Not that I couldn’t have found other work locally—accounting’s one of those jobs you can find literally anywhere—but… well. I’d just been through a really nasty breakup with my university boyfriend and I needed to get away, and ‘across town’ just wasn’t going to cut it. 

It didn’t take me long to find a new position. I applied all the usual places—even got a call back from PWC—but in the end I ended up at another small, local office—Spectacle & Associates LLP, if you’re interested. I was a bit wary; I didn’t want a repeat of my last job… but in the end job security is never guaranteed, and besides, the salary they were offering was nearly half again as much the other places I’d applied at, so I assumed they weren’t exactly struggling. Honestly, I think they made up their minds even before I drove down for the in-person interview, because the whole thing felt like a formality. When Tonya called the very next morning to tell me I’d gotten the job, I wasn’t even surprised, and a week later I was standing in my new flat, surrounded by boxes and bare walls.

It was a nice enough place, I suppose—better than I thought I’d get on such short notice, to be honest—but it wasn’t furnished, and I’d been living with Tom so long I didn’t really have any furniture of my own. I could probably have insisted on taking some of ours—not that the bastard offered—but I really just wanted a fresh start, so I decided to avoid _that_ fight and manage on my own. 

That was how I ended up with the mirror. I’m not usually one for thrift shopping, but London rent’s more than I’m used to paying on my own and even with my new position I guess I was feeling kind of poor. I thought I’d just check out a few local thrift shops, see what there was. In the back of my mind I think I was hoping I could find a really interesting statement piece, an antique or something, that I could impress all the friends I was definitely going to make with when I invited them ‘round. I mean, I didn’t really know anything about it. Turns out, antiquing’s different than thrift shopping, and a hell of a lot more expensive. I was pretty disappointed by the selection at charity shops—mostly battered and vaguely sticky tables, or upholstered armchairs that looked like they’d been rotting in someone’s basement for a few decades. 

But I managed a few chairs at a decent price—nothing spectacular, just utilitarian wood—and I got the mirror. As you can see, it’s nothing impressive, but it was sturdy and large and cheap, and was well-made enough that I could actually tell what I looked like in it from a distance without it woozily squashing or stretching me. Actually, it was the clearest mirror I’d ever seen. None of that wobbly blue-green tint you usually see when you look far enough back in it. More like… looking through a window to a perfectly mirrored reality, if you stare at it long enough, though I wouldn’t encourage you to try. Or, I don’t know, maybe I would. That’s what you lot do, isn’t it? Poke your noses into things best left alone? 

I had planned to hang it, really I did, but that’s one of those projects that you always say you’re going to do without ever really getting around to it, so actually the thing ended up propped against the wall of my bedroom for months. And honestly, that worked fine for me. I even considered draping it in fairy lights once or twice, like you see on Instagram photos, but somehow it never seemed right to obstruct it like that, even a little. There was something about the edges—no frame, no bevel—that instead of just making it look unfinished made me think of an infinity pool. Kind of calming. Hypnotic.

I was having bad dreams since the move—and before you say anything, they _weren’t_ supernatural. I always sleep poorly when I’m stressed, and uprooting my life like that was definitely stressful. A lot more than I thought it would be, for such a relatively small move, actually. I was kind of… lost, I guess. It’s amazing how much of my identity I had tied up in my relationship and the patterns of my life at home. Without that structure to lean on… well. I didn’t quite know where to begin rebuilding.  


So I got stress dreams instead. I don’t want to call them nightmares, exactly, because by any normal definition of the word they weren’t. I’d just be walking through somewhere I knew well—weirdly, a lot of times it was the old Sainsbury’s Tom and I used to do all our shopping at—and suddenly, I’d realise I’d been there for hours, and I’d start getting this sense of irrational dread, kind of like the feeling you get when you’re right on the edge of sleep and nothing makes sense. It always felt like the world was just about to end, and I’d just be wandering aimlessly around the aisles of Sainsbury’s waiting for it. 

Again, that’s pretty normal for me, actually. What’s really important about the dreams is what they did, which was to wake me up at about three or four o’clock every morning. That’s about the worst time for me to wake up, because by then I’ve slept enough that I can’t just fall back asleep before my alarm goes off at six, so I just have to kind of exist around my flat for a few hours, dreading how exhausted I’m going to be by the afternoon. The first few mornings I’d just kind of lay there in the grey of my room, waiting for the sun to come up and pretending I could get a little bit more dozing in. I never could, though, and I finally came to terms with the fact that this didn’t actually make me any better-rested, and that I might as well just get up and do something productive.

I actually kind of enjoyed it, you know? That’s the good of living alone. You can do whatever you want at pretty much any hour without having to consider that, oh, your boyfriend’s got work, too. So if I wanted to make tea and do yoga poses at four-thirty a.m., well, who was going to stop me? It was nice. It was… something all of my own, a little ritual that belonged exclusively to me and to my life as a single, specifically. I never realised before how the early morning makes things different. All of the familiar places—my flat, the street outside my window—they were different before dawn. I could watch the sun come up and the street come alive, and there was still this… I don’t know, _discontinuity_ every time. It felt like I’d discovered a secret hour that no one else knew about, like I had stepped into a world that wasn’t quite real and was entirely my own. 

I still don’t know what was special about that morning in particular. Probably nothing, you know? Still, it seems like… like I should’ve known, somehow. Like something should’ve tipped me off that my whole life was going to be turned arse over teakettle, but… yeah. It was just a morning in mid-April, like any other. I was more tired than usual; I’d been up late the night before—not doing anything particularly interesting, just watching late-night telly and… probably drinking more than I should’ve on a weeknight, honestly. I’m sure I didn’t get to sleep until well past midnight. That didn’t stop the dreams, unfortunately, and so I was up again at about quarter to five, making tea in my little kitchen. I started in on my stretches, but despite the caffeine I had that heavy drowsiness that comes of being woken too soon coating the back of my eyes and throat, and I ended up just kind of… sitting there cross-legged, eyes fixed on my reflection in the mirror without really looking at it. 

Do you know, people talk about the ‘uncanny valley’ like it’s this innate sense we have, but it’s not, really. We have to learn what ‘normal’ is before we start to be creeped out by the ‘abnormal’—it’s not… inborn, or anything. I keep telling myself this, that it’s just a learned response, but… I don’t know how else to say it. The immediate, icy dread I felt at seeing the thing in the mirror didn’t feel conditioned—it felt like it came from somewhere deep inside me, something primordial, instinctual. The thing in the mirror was _wrong_. Wrong in its being, wrong in its existence. It _shouldn’t_ have existed—but it did. It was right there in the reflection, right over my shoulder.

I didn’t jump or scream or anything like that, I just… looked at it. I know it sounds like I’m trying to make myself out to be braver than I am, but it wasn’t like that at all. I was _too_ scared, I think, to do anything performative, to do anything but just _stare_. Still, I can’t describe what it looked like then, not really. I couldn’t really see it, no matter how hard I tried. It was… too far away and too _tall_ to actually be in my room, except that it _was_ , somehow. My room is maybe… three metres square? But it was like I was staring at it from down a long hallway—all I could get was the basic shape, like a person, but stretched out. I couldn’t have told you what its features were—if it had any—or what it was wearing—if it was wearing anything. But… I don’t know. It looked… almost _familiar_. 

It was so _tangible_ , is the thing. I played with the idea that it was a trick of the light, but I only have one window in my bedroom, and it was still too dark for there have been any light coming in through the curtains, so it couldn’t have just been a… silhouette or shadow. Besides that, my room was almost bare. I hadn’t gotten around to decorating it properly yet, and it seemed a little immature, somehow, to hang up the collection of posters I had from my uni days. So the wall behind me should have just been a blank, flat, cream. And yet.

I stared at it for a very long time as the room lightened around me—maybe fifteen minutes, altogether, before my six-o’clock alarm went off. That _did_ startle me, enough to… well, I _must_ have been blinking, if I’d been watching that long, but that’s all it felt like. A blink, and it was gone, and I was sat there, too spooked to turn around. I considered calling in, but I really wanted to be around people somewhere _other_ than my flat, so after a while I just… got up and went to work.

Look, I’m not stupid. I’m not much of a horror fan, personally, but I know enough through… cultural osmosis, I suppose, to know that keeping a cursed mirror around is a bad idea. I don’t know why I didn’t get rid of it entirely, or smash it or something. I think I rationalized it with something altruistic, like I didn’t want it to get someone else. But honestly? I don’t know. I think it just didn’t fit in with the image I had of myself. Do you ever think about that? About how who we are is less something inherent to our personalities, and more just… a story we tell ourselves? 

I mean, I’ve always thought of myself as tough and pragmatic. On the one hand, I didn’t really consider the possibility that I was hallucinating. I’m very grounded. I knew what I’d seen. But it was like, if I put too much effort into disposing of the mirror, I’d be betraying this idea I had of myself, like… I don’t know, admitting that this was something I couldn’t handle. Or admitting that I actually _believed_ what I’d seen… even though I _did_. So even though I’d get this cold wash of fear every time I looked at it, the Sasha James I thought I was wouldn’t freak out and take an axe to it. She’d be cool and calm and cover it with a bedsheet and turn it around to face the wall. So that’s what I did, and tried to ignore the lingering chill on my neck.

I don’t think it was the right move. But then again, I don’t think it would have mattered _what_ I did with the mirror, because the next time I saw the figure it was at work. It was about a week later. There was nothing… nothing particularly _special_ about the day, nothing irregular or out of the ordinary. I just got up from the desk where I’d been typing all morning to go to the toilet, the same as usual, and when I was washing my hands… I looked up and it was there again, in the mirror. It was one of those single-room bathrooms, so I was all alone. I mean, there wasn’t anywhere for a person to hide, and besides, like before, it was a lot further away than should have been possible in a room of that size. But it was there. Maybe a little closer than before, a little clearer, but… I still couldn’t make out any more details, or why it seemed like I knew the shape of it from somewhere. 

I… stopped waking up early after that. Or, I suppose I should say that I stopped _getting_ up early, because I was still having stress dreams. It’s funny—you’d think they’d have changed somehow, like… my paranoia at being stalked by a mirror monster would have infected them somehow. But no, they were the same as ever. As far as my brain was concerned, stress was stress, I guess, and it didn’t matter where it came from. 

I’d still wake up at four or so, but I’d just lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Those mornings were the worst of it, I think. I’d be so scared I couldn’t even bring myself to turn my head or look around until the room started to lighten. I guess that’s more cultural osmosis. If sunlight and company drive away demons, then there’s no more vulnerable place to be than alone and in the dark. The early hours that had been my sanctuary from the world instead became something of a prison I’d be trapped in, unable to sleep, until the sun rose or I mustered the courage to get up and turn on all my lights. 

I covered all of the mirrors in my house, of course. I didn’t have any framed pictures up, but I covered my television, too, and took to keeping my curtains drawn so there wouldn’t be any reflection in the window glass. It didn’t help. Even if I avoided public restrooms… there’s really no place to go in the modern world that’s _not_ surrounded by reflective surfaces—car windows, the polished metal insides of the lifts, the plastic covers on the advertisements at the Tube station. It wouldn’t show up every time I saw my reflection, but every time it _did_ it was just that little bit nearer and clearer.

This is around the time I bought myself a flip phone and stopped using anything but my work computer, which had a matte monitor. It was actually a harder adjustment than I thought it’d be. I mean, it’s not like I ever used social media all _that_ much, but it was kind of strange, being without it. Like another piece of myself coming unmoored. Maybe that’s why… oh, this part won’t make any sense. I guess we’re all fascinated with the macabre a little, but I was so scared, I don’t know why…

I almost began to… well, ‘enjoy it’ would definitely be the wrong turn of phrase. Still, my little haunting started to take the place of those early morning yoga sessions, in a way. It was something wholly my own, and if it was my own private terror, well, that only made the sense of ownership that much more intense. Everything else I’d used to mark myself by had been uprooted… except my job, I guess, insofar as I was still working as an accountant, but it’s not like I’d really settled into my place in the company yet. 

And as time went on, I began to see that I didn’t really _want_ to. I’d listen in, of course, when my colleagues were talking, at lunch or in the breakroom or in the midst of our cubicle forest. Removed from the personal stakes that come with familiarity, the conversations all seemed so… inane. Departmental gossip, complaints about deadlines or customers, the usual talk of home lives and relationships. Sometimes I felt like I was watching it all from behind glass, observing from a different world—and my world was so utterly removed from the petty mundanity of theirs that I’d almost smile to myself when they tried to drag me into a conversation, aware that the monster in my mirror marked me out as special, that by nature of holding that secret I had become someone they could never presume to understand. 

I guess I grew too comfortable, or maybe my attitude didn’t matter at all and I had just… run my time out, because one night in mid-September the mirror was waiting for me when I got home, uncovered and propped up against my kitchen table, and the figure was in it, now sharply focused and so, so near.

I knew why I’d found it so familiar all those times. Up close, it wasn’t too tall or too long; it was just a person, person-shaped and person-sized. It was… ( _small, broken-off sob_ ) it was _me_. _I_ was in the mirror—my reflection, and the reflection of my reflection, standing just over my shoulder, a perfect mirror image. I realised suddenly as I looked at it that that was what other people saw when they looked at me, and what I’d always thought of as my appearance was the true reflection. The… the me in the mirror smiled. She put a hand on my shoulder and I could _feel_ it. And then… ( _another, terrified sob_ ) and then she leaned in, down to my ear and I could feel the warmth of her breath on my cheek as she whispered to me, ‘ _no one will ever see what you see_ ’.

[STATIC BEGINS TO BUILD, SUBTLE AT FIRST BUT RISING]

And then she stepped… stepped _into my reflection_ , the one that I was casting that showed me all bloodless and wide-eyed with terror, and the world inverted, and I was trapped, trapped in this place without a face or a name where no one knew me as she smiled back at me and strolled away, out into the real world and my real life and I kept waiting and waiting to get out, or to finally disappear. 

[SASHA’S VOICE DISTORTS AND OVERLAPS]

_But I never did. I never got out._

[STATIC SLOWLY FADES]

**ARCHIVIST**

( _slow, measured exhale_ ) …you’re not Sasha James, then. Right. 

**NOT SASHA**

( _voice is no longer distorted but all trace of fear is gone_ ) I suppose I really couldn’t be. A shame. Has a lot going for her, our Sasha. Had? Had a lot going for her? Hard to tell really. ( _wry giggle_ )

**ARCHIVIST**

Right. Who are you— _what_ are you—and why are you here?

**NOT SASHA**

Oh, I really couldn’t say, and I do mean that _quite_ literally. As for _why_ , well… let’s call it a favour to an old friend. ( _giggle_ ) Suppose I’ll be going now. ( _generously_ ) You can keep the mirror.

[SOUND OF CHAIR BEING PUSHED BACK, STATIC AGAIN]

Be seeing you, Archivist. Very soon.

[STATIC FADES. SOUND OF CLATTERING, LIKE ANOTHER CHAIR BEING SHOVED BACK OR POSSIBLY KNOCKED OVER]

**ARCHIVIST**

( _faintly, moving away from recorder_ ) What are you… damn. Damn! 

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

**ARCHIVIST**

Personal notes regarding artefact #0161504, recorded twentieth April, twenty-sixteen.

I have turned the mirror over to Research for cataloguing and review, and so my job is, technically, done. Still, I find… I cannot simply leave this be. I, of course, included a transcribed copy of my interview with the… thing which isn’t Sasha, but this has garnered little attention from Research, and less from Jon, who seem to have written it off as a rogue element; a human agent of one of the many forces which oppose us, meaning to waste our time and energy. 

I am convinced otherwise. The thing I met was not human. I know that Jon claims that there is no such thing as a truly inhuman monster, but… I know better. And while I know that the boundaries of human potential lie far beyond what most imagine—I have been to Consortium events, after all—I equally know that there are forces in this world far beyond us in turn.

It is… good, to finally be certain. I wondered, you know. And yet, to have confirmation fills me with equal parts excitement and dread. This is what I was looking for; this is the knowledge I have been seeking—but still, to be poised here on the brink of the unknown is… daunting. Still, I have never before let fear outweigh curiosity, and it will take more than a little stage fright to waylay me from my purpose, after so many years without a lead. And so, if no one here is to be of any help to me, I will have to conduct my own inquiries.

I have thus far been met with nothing but an increasingly frustrating trail of dead ends. Perhaps it shouldn’t be a surprise that the thing was lying to me, but… there was something, a thread of truth to its story to be teased out, if only I can find a loose end to tug.

Outbridge Financials, LLC was a real accounting firm based in Exeter, which was absorbed in a merger with Bennet & Hodge back in 2009, presumably as a result of the international financial crisis. They were hesitant to allow me access to their records, but considering that the events described supposedly took place in 2014, I would be shocked if they have an employment record for a ‘Sasha James’. Spectacle & Associates, as far as I can tell, does not exist and never did. It doesn’t even _sound_ real, if I’m honest. 

Beyond that, I have too few personal details to be of any use. A search on social media turns up a fair few profiles of ‘Sasha James’s—far too many, considering that I cannot reasonably rule out any location of origin. And this is assuming, of course, that the name is of any significance at all and was not simply chosen at random by the thing.

There is… I did manage to find a missing persons case from all the way back in 1999. Sasha James, reported missing from her London flat after her landlord failed to receive her rent two months in a row. He claimed that she was an employee at the Paranormal Research Foundation. It’s… possible that a random unaffiliated Londoner might remember us by our old name, even two decades on from our reestablishment as the Fanshawe Group, but this story is impossible for another reason. As secretary, I have access to employment records stretching all the way back to the early nineteen hundreds, and there is no record of us having ever employed anyone by that name. 

[CLICK]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. Okay. FINALLY figured out sort of where I was going with Sasha/NotSasha so that I could post this. Stay tuned next time for: the Web and more employee gossip, feat. Mike Crew.
> 
> Of course Elias and Peter have to meet at the Annual Institute ~~Holiday Party~~ Fundraising Gala (currently scheduled for chapter 4. Look, I said it was a slow burn.)


End file.
